


all of the stars

by johnllauren



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Implied Past Trauma, M/M, mental health issues i guess, sad and gay and sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-06-17 00:28:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15449286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnllauren/pseuds/johnllauren
Summary: America lies on the damp, cold grass and hurts.





	all of the stars

**Author's Note:**

> title from ed sheeran's song all of the stars

America lies on the damp, cold grass and hurts. 

He stares up, stares at the sky with all of its stars and he tries to calm his breathing but _fuck_ if he isn’t thinking about how the sky looks like across the pond, _fuck_ if he isn’t hoping England can see the same stars he can, and _fuck_ he can’t stop thinking about him. 

His hands slide up to cover his face - from who, he doesn’t know - and he’s too devoid of emotion to even cry so he just lies there, occasionally peeking at the sky through his fingers. 

America wishes it didn’t have to be like this. He wishes he could just be normal, for once, that he could just have normal feelings toward England, instead of whatever the fuck this is. 

Because his every waking thought is about England, and his heart aches all the time, and _the heart wants what the heart wants_ , but the heart _can’t_. America curses himself. He’s in love, he’s so in love, and for some god awful reason he can’t get physically intimate with someone without freaking out, England included. 

He wants to be able to hold England’s hand and kiss him and have sloppy makeouts but he can’t. And that is really not helping this situation at all. And it is really not helping that every time America fucking thinks of England his heart tightens. 

_Exhale._ He exhales. _Inhale._ He inhales. 

America looks up at the sky again and all he can hear are cicadas, all around him. He loves the sound of them, by now - they sound like home, like the countryside, long walks at twilight and bonfires. 

But damn if he wouldn’t give all of it just to hear the sounds of London at night. 

America _knows_ , he knows, that when he has nights like this, nights where all he can do is wallow in his own melancholy until he doesn’t know which way is up, he’s supposed to call someone. He knows that there’s a post it on his fridge of his friends’ phone numbers, and he knows that Canada would be at his house in an instant if he called. 

Some nights are just better spent alone, though. 

America squeezes his eyes shut and a tear falls down his cheek.


End file.
